


Not Quite, But Almost

by taylorswift



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, RPF - Fandom
Genre: Almost Kiss, F/M, MTV Movie Awards, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3785161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylorswift/pseuds/taylorswift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was like all of the stars had aligned perfectly for this one night. I'm in her favorite leather jacket. She's wearing my favorite color on her. And I've waited all this time to finally do something, and fully intend to--thanks to the spiked orange juice I smuggled in the back of the cab.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite, But Almost

**Author's Note:**

> Getting more than one of these on Tumblr, I decided to write about the own little personal "headcanon"--if we can call it that--that I had when I watched the MTV Movie Awards and watched Best Female Performance, as well as going out of my mind with Rennerson.

“Renner, is it possible for you to be on time for anything?”

“I plan on being late to my own funeral, thank you very much,” I inform Mark in a matter-of-fact voice, smirk dancing across my lips. He rolls his eyes, nudging me with his elbow playfully—he, along with every person that has an ounce of common sense to their name, probably knows by now that I’m drunk. Though it isn’t my usual intake, I figure that it never hurts to have an extra little kick running through my system. You never know who you’re going to see, what’s going to happen, or how anything will go. Certainly isn’t a bad thing if I’m about to spend my night in the presence of the one person that gets inside my head without fail.

She’s here somewhere, I know it. I jokingly call it my seventh sense, or in my head, I call it my Scarlett sense. Sure, I was expecting her to be here—sort of a given when every promotion boasted that we would _all_ be here and she’d told me in that voice of hers that I’d see her then. Which, of course, is now, and I’m about to burst at the seams trying to find her.

Thanks to the now permanent lapse of sanity Joss is suffering from, I’ve hardly had much time to talk to her since the press tour started. To my not-surprise, we weren’t paired up together for the first round of interviews, and we were like ships passing in the night for the days on location; whenever I was in an interview, she wasn’t, and vice versa. We caught each other on coffee breaks and for group photos and that was it in terms of contact with her. Plotting the murder of my director in every imaginable way was a fun way to pass the time in between interviewers, although it didn’t put me in the same room as her.

Then came along MTV, and even though it had been decades since I’d been a teenager or remotely interested in that sort of thing, I had never been more grateful for some random network’s random award show that was presenting Rob with his millionth award. They’d seated me and Scarlett on the same row, next to each other, the only two of our cast together in that row. It was like the stars could not have aligned in a more perfect way, really. I had made sure to pull out all the stops, because there is no messing this up. Dressing myself had never been more of a struggle, but I finally decided on wearing the same leather jacket that she’d stolen that night at the Mötley Crüe concert because we’d both agreed it looked better on her and whatever else seemed to match. He hadn’t shaved either, mainly because I knew how much she preferred me with the stubble than she did clean shaven. Everything about tonight orbited around her, and there was no question about it.

Mark must notice my disregard for him and how I’m constantly looking over his shoulder for her; it’s not like I’m making it any secret. “She’s here,” he notifies me quietly, and I snap back to attention. “Saw her earlier. She’s wearing pink.”

My eyes briefly train onto his for a moment, and I feel my heart skip a beat at what he’s just told me. The last time I can even recall her wearing pink was the same night of the 2011 Oscars, and my knees threaten to go weak at the thought of that night. Yes, that was it; she was wearing pink that night, and we flirted so hard in front of just about every camera that there will never be any way either of us could just forget that it happened, not with the endless photo proof that exists all over the Internet. She looked so fucking beautiful that night in pink and I’m already picturing her in pink tonight, my mind wandering to forbidden places. _Granted, she could wear a trash bag tonight and still look as though she’d descended from the heavens._

_Control it._

I have to constantly remind myself that not only is she married and with a child that she loves more than she loves breathing, but there is no way in hell that she’s going to care half as much as she used to about our little dream team, especially not to the degree of last time. Last time we were all but professing our love in interviews. This time we’re lucky if we even pass by the other on the way to or from an interview. She’s not going to care that I’m now semi-back on the market, that I’m still making heart eyes at her every time I catch a glimpse of her blonde hair or hear her voice, that I’m currently planning ways to win her heart, when her heart’s already locked away in the trophy case of her husband.

The spiked orange juice that I’d smuggled in the back of the car on the way here seems like it’s light years away, and while I couldn’t be farther from sober, I’m trying to shake myself from my outlandish hopes and remind myself that I’m very much awake and not in a wild dream of mine. Mark motions for me to follow him, and I take it we’re on our way to our seats.

The opening credits are running as Mark and I find our seats; I’m able to find where we’re going from the moment I walk down the aisle and spot a bright shade of bubblegum pink. _Scarlett._

I have to find some self-control not to sprint down the aisle to where she is, instead swallowing all of my reckless cares and taking a deep breath. _Act like you have some fucking sense, at least until you leave._ I hear our names being mentioned as I slip into the aisle, and that’s when I spot her turning her head slightly. Her green eyes land on my frame heading in her direction, and my heart begins to skip beats—she looks paradisiacal.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” she banters, her voice down to a whisper. I roll my eyes, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as I sit down. _Great, it hasn’t even been thirty seconds since I’ve seen her and here I am_ kissing _her._ She doesn’t seem to make too much of it, so I assume that I’ve gotten away with it without her picking up on any other connotation it could have.

“You know me, I’m all about being fashionably late,” I reply, catching sight of those eyes of hers, twinkling like there are little stars buried inside of her pupils.

“If I hadn’t gotten the news you were sitting beside me, I would have assumed you weren’t even coming,” she argues.

“Sorry to make you sweat, sweetheart.”

I take a quick second to scan my eyes over her body, and my insides begin to melt. Fuck, she’s looked better than I think she ever has. Having a kid did wonders for her body; she has to be in the best shape of her life, even though those glorious curves of hers are less noticeable and a slimmer figure in its place. She’s glowing though, there’s no question about it. Her skin is giving off sheer sunlight, her smile blinding and the long golden earrings she’s wearing reflecting the light. My head is swimming as I try to take in every little inch of her in a glimpse.

The host laughs and makes jokes with the crowd as a part of her opening monologue, but Scarlett and I are those two kids in the back of class, not paying a lick of attention and carrying on our own conversations. I can’t help but to notice how happy she seems. It’s like she’s on top of the world, sitting here in the seat next to little old me who’s juiced up on vodka and trying to contain his desire for the woman next to him. I’m surprised she hasn’t even acknowledged how love struck I have to appear.

They rush into the first award, which is Best Female Performance. I see Scarlett tense up, and I lean over the armrest so my chin is almost brushing the fabric of her jumpsuit. “You up for this?” I whisper. I watch as she nods, and a smile spreads across my face. It’ll be nice to see her win something; it’ll be nice to see her radiating in even more happiness.

I glance over at Scarlett, and she’s lounged back in her seat casually. She doesn’t expect to win this award, and I can see it on her face. In her mind, she’s probably thinking of how this is an award show where all the popular teenager movies win all the awards, and nothing she was nominated for falls into that category. She’s probably thinking that there’s no point in even paying attention; let’s get on with Downey and then move on with our lives.

Meanwhile, my bones are shaking as my mind hurtles light years ahead of the montage that’s currently playing on the big screens. It comes across to her nomination, scenes from Lucy hurtling along the screen, and all I can think of is how badly I want to kiss her. I should have known that this would have come at a cost, sitting beside her. It’s almost poisonous, my desire for her. Had it manifested into anything, it would have erupted into flames and consumed this whole building. Sitting this close to her is enough to make me feel like there’s an electrical current running through the armrest that we’re sharing and underneath my skin, and knowing that the ethereal creature next to me is one that I’m obviously still in love with, even after three years. It’s already taking everything in me to keep from throwing my arm around her or wrapping my hand over top hers, hell, I have to assume statue position to keep from doing anything stupid.

Shooting a glance in her direction, I can see the disinterested look on her face. She’s already written herself off as the loser, and I hope that I’m wrong. I’m a big believer in taking stupid risks, so I make myself the challenge right then and there—if she wins this award, I’m going to kiss her.

If they call out her name, I don’t care how many cameras or smart phones or people have their attention glued to her. I don’t care if it’s possibly the worst idea in the history of bad ideas, I don’t care if our entire cast is positioned directly behind us, I don’t even care if her husband’s at home in the middle of fuck knows where watching on a little TV screen, I’m going to kiss her. Maybe it’s my spiked orange juice doing the talking for me, or maybe I’m just beyond the point of caring about keeping my feelings held tight to my chest. I don’t care, I don’t care, _goddammit, I do not care_.

She’ll probably hate me once I do this. If I lean over and grab her face as she stands up to go get her award and kiss her, she’ll probably never forgive me for what I’ll do in front of the whole world. She won’t ever want to talk to me again. In fact, she’ll probably talk to me one last time to tell me that I’m the biggest motherfucker to ever cross paths with her and she wants nothing to do with me anymore. Sure, I’m not sure that I’ll handle that the easiest, but the thought of kissing her again makes every consequence pale in comparison. Just the _idea_ of my lips on hers after three fucking years, three _eternities_ of life changes and relationships and children and marriages and divorces, sounds like bliss. Scarlett is bliss, as far as I’m concerned, and they don’t get any more desperate than I am to kiss her.

The montage wraps up, and the blood is pounding in my ears. I watch as Vin Diesel fumbles with the envelope, my whole world and the rest of my future resting in the contents of that very envelope. It’s going to determine whether or not I lean over this seat and kiss the one woman I’ve ever been in love with, the one woman I’m _still_ in love with in front of the whole goddamn world. I’m readying myself, fingers trembling as I try to think of what it’ll be like to kiss her again. Maybe this will be good for me, maybe I won’t be on edge every time I come in a twenty foot radius of her because she’ll finally know how I feel, even after all this time. “And the winner is…”

I’m ready. I’ve never been more ready. _It’s time she fucking knows, Jeremy._

_“Shailene Woodley!”_

I’m frozen there in my seat. It’s not Scarlett. She stays in her laidback position, hands moving to clap for the winner who’s heading up for the stage. The screams of all the teenagers in here is still ringing in my ears as it settles—no kissing her. No congratulatory hug, even. Just us sitting here, me trying to swallow the lump in my throat as I come down from the fact that I’ve almost kissed her.

As Shailene gives her thank you speech, I settle back into my own chair. Glancing over at her again, she still looks as gorgeous as she did when I first met her, when I saw her that night at the Oscars in pink, and every other night in between that. She always will look that gorgeous, and I’m confident that my feelings aren’t going anywhere any time soon. I figure it’s alright that I didn’t kiss her yet.

I’ve got time.


End file.
